At Home on Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  “Of course,” mused Derrick, “one has to wonder what good ten extra years would be without Bergdorf’s.”

  “Or Broadway,” added Paul.

  “Or lamb chops marinated in truffle oil and served on a bed of baby asparagus.”

  “Okay, now you’re just depressing us,” Bridget said, and everyone laughed.

  “It was nice of you to take Noah under your wing,” Lindsay said to Derrick. “I hope he’s not being too much of a pest.”

  “I rather like the scamp, actually,” Derrick admitted. “And you’re right—he has a good deal of raw talent, with which you’ve done wonders, by the way. We might talk about his doing an internship with me at the gallery in a couple of years.”

  Lindsay’s face lit up. “Really? That would be fabulous!”

  Derrick held up a finger. “I said ‘talk.’ He’d have to be cleaned up and smoothed out a good deal before then.”

  “Not a problem.” Lindsay sipped her wine and grinned. “You’ve just given me something to bribe him with for at least another year.”

  “And now let’s talk about you,” Derrick said. “I couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t a single one of your paintings on display in your studio.”

  Lindsay tried to look cavalier. “I think I’m a better teacher than an artist. You know what they say: ‘Those who can, do, those who can’t—’ ”

  “Nonsense. Those who don’t have the courage, perhaps.”

  Lindsay frowned.

  “Besides,” Bridget pointed out, “you’ve done some wonderful paintings of Bambi, and what about that portrait of Rebel you gave me for Christmas? Derrick liked that, didn’t you, Derrick?”

  “I thought all it needed was a spray of pine and a red bow and it would be perfect for the cover of the holiday L.L. Bean catalog.”

  Lindsay lifted her foot as though to kick him and he leaned away with a grin.

  “What?” demanded Cici. “Isn’t that a compliment?”

  “You’re better than that,” Derrick told Lindsay. “You just haven’t found your passion yet.”

  “Well, when I do,” Lindsay assured him, “you’ll be the last to know.”

  Derrick chuckled, and Paul raised his glass. “A toast,” he said. “To the lovely ladies of Ladybug Farm, who never cease to amaze me. May your lives always be as full as they are now.”

  Cici raised a cautionary finger. “But not any fuller.”

  10

  More Company

  The next morning dawned cold and cloudy and, nestled under mounds of quilts, everyone slept late. It was the raucous barking of the sheepdog that shattered the silence.

  Bridget, groaning, pulled a pillow over her head and waited for it to stop. But the barking went on and on, growing more furious and higher pitched with each moment, until finally she flung back the covers and reached for her robe.

  She met Cici on the stairs, her hair tousled and her face puffy, belting her robe over flannel pajamas. “What in the world is wrong with that dog?” she said, and that’s when they both noticed Ida Mae, turning away from the front window.

  “Ya’ll expecting more company?” she asked, looking annoyed.

  Bridget and Cici joined her at the window, puzzling over the burgundy sedan that Rebel repeatedly charged, teeth bared and legs stiff, as though his life depended upon keeping the sedan at bay. Through the car’s foggy windows they could make out the shapes of two cringing women.

  “I wonder who they are,” Cici said.

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses?” suggested Bridget.

  “Somebody ought to do something,” declared Ida Mae.

  “I’ll get ’im.” This from Noah, who had come down the stairs bare-chested and barefooted, and headed straight for the front door.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Lindsay called from the landing behind him. “It’s freezing out there! Put on some clothes!”

  But Noah, flinging open the front door, roared, “Rebel!” and dashed down the steps and across the frosty lawn to grab the dog’s collar and drag him away.

  “Well, I guess that woke everyone up,” Bridget said. She smothered a yawn. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Before Ida Mae could answer that, Lindsay joined them at the window, tying her French terry robe and peeling back the curtain for a better look. “What’s going on? Who is that? I can’t believe that boy went out in his bare feet!”

  Noah, hopping on first one foot and then the other as the frozen grass cut into his soles, dragged the reluctant dog toward the barn, as the driver opened the door of the sedan. Lindsay gasped and sank back from the window.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her hand at her throat. “That’s Carrie Lincoln. From the Department of Family and Children’s Services.”

  Bridget peeked out the window again. “Who’s that with her?”

  “I don’t know.” Lindsay groaned. “I guess I can understand a surprise visit, but why did it have to be today?”

  Bridget repeated. “What time is it?”

  There was a knock on the door, and Lindsay tried rather desperately to smooth her tangled hair as she went to answer it.

  “Carrie.” She greeted her warmly and opened the door wide. “How nice to see you. Sorry about the dog. He really should be locked up. Come in. Goodness, it’s cold this morning, isn’t it?”

  Carrie, a thirtyish woman with a pixie haircut and a quick—although at the moment rather strained—smile, stepped inside, accompanied by an older, stouter woman in a puffy quilted car coat. Carrie toted a messenger bag-type briefcase; the other woman carried a clipboard.

  Carrie said, in her honey-thick New Orleans accent, “Lindsay, this is my supervisor, Marjorie Boynton. Marjorie, this is Lindsay Wright . . .” She turned to the other two, who did the best they could to straighten their hair and their bathrobes as they came forward. “Bridget Tindale and Cici Burke.”

  Marjorie’s handshake was firm, cold, and no-nonsense. Her smile was nonexistent, her colorless gray eyes stern. She said, flatly, “Your sheep are wearing coats.”

  Lindsay suppressed another groan, and tried to disguise it with a weak smile. “I guess Noah let the sheep out of the barn when he put Rebel up.”

  Carrie said, a little uncertainly, “I hope we didn’t wake you. But it is almost ten o’clock.”

  “Oh, good God,” Cici said, turning to stare at the grandfather clock in the living room. And then she apologized, “We never sleep this late, really, but we have company and we were up half the night—”

  It was at that moment that Paul appeared at the top of the stairs in his paisley silk robe and leather slippers, and called down cheerfully, “Good morning, my beauties. Loved the wake-up call. Now, if you’d only offer room service . . .”

  And Derrick, similarly attired, appeared behind him. “Is that coffee I smell? We’ll be down in a jiff.”

  Lori emerged behind them, wrapped in a quilt and looking grumpy and rumpled,. “Mooommm,” she complained, “there’s no heat in my room again and it’s freezing. There’s ice in the toilet!”

  At the same time Noah blew in from the kitchen, rubbing his hands briskly over his goosefleshed arms and wiping one bare foot and then the other against the leg of his jeans to warm them. “Man, it’s colder than a witch’s—”

  “Noah,” Lindsay interrupted, perhaps a bit too loudly, “you remember Mrs. Lincoln from Social Services? And say hello to Mrs. Boynton.”

  Noah stopped, his affable expression immediately turning suspicious. He scowled at them. “What do you want?”

  “Mom!” Lori insisted.

  Cici said, “Excuse me, we’re a little disorganized this morning.” She flashed the visitors a reassuring smile as she hurried toward the stairs. “There isn’t really ice in the toilet.” Then, “For heaven’s sake, Lori, use my bathroom!”

  Mrs. Boynton said severely, “Your sheep are wearing coats while your children are freezing. Young man, do you have a coat? Or shoes?”

  To which Noah returned sulkily, “What’s it t
o you?”

  “Noah!” Lindsay said sharply. She took a breath. “Go get dressed. And don’t be late for breakfast,“ she added, loudly, as he turned away. She offered a weak apologetic smile to the social workers. “Teenagers,” she said.

  Carrie cleared her throat. “I can see we’ve come at a bad time.” She glanced toward the staircase, where Cici was hustling Derrick and Paul back to their room, whispering to them frantically. “But you understand the point of this visit was to see how you really live.”

  “But we really don’t live like this at all,” Lindsay objected. “We really live very nice quiet lives.”

  Bridget stepped forward, laying a calming hand on Lindsay’s arm, smiling graciously. “I know we haven’t made a very good first impression, but maybe you’d like to have a cup of coffee while we freshen up and get ourselves organized? Ida Mae,” she called, but Ida Mae was already there, marching a tray filled with coffee cups toward the living room.

  Lindsay scurried ahead of her, snatching up the wineglasses, empty bottles, and empty snack bowls from the night before. “Nightmare,” she muttered to Bridget as she passed, doing her ineffectual best to hide the empties in the folds of her house-coat. “This is a freakin’ nightmare.” And then she called brightly over her shoulder, “We’ll be right back. Make yourselves at home!”

  Upstairs, they found Paul and Derrick tossing through their luggage with an air of purpose while Noah, across the hall, assured them, “I ain’t putting on no tie for no stupid social worker! You can’t make me!”

  “Cici told us,” Paul assured Lindsay as she passed. “Don’t worry, we’ve got it under control.”

  “Found it!” declared Derrick, holding up a red tie triumphantly.

  “You . . . ” Bridget grabbed Derrick’s arm and propelled him toward the stairs. “Go downstairs and be charming. You . . .” She pushed Paul toward Noah’s room. “Do what you can to make him presentable. No tie!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried past.

  Within ten minutes Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay came back down the stairs wearing jeans and sweaters, their hair brushed and their lipstick applied, with smiles that were as hastily applied as their makeup. The two social workers were sipping coffee in the living room, where Derrick’s charm was having a good effect on Carrie, but left the older woman utterly unmoved. He had managed to get a fire started in the fireplace from last night’s embers, and the dancing glow was beginning to dispel some of the room’s gloom.

  “Noah will be down in a minute,” Lindsay said pleasantly, smoothing her hands on her jeans as she sat down in one of the wing chairs across from the social workers. “Things are always a little hectic around here in the morning.”

  “But not usually as hectic as this,” Cici assured them quickly. “You see we stayed up late . . .”

  “Yes, your friend was just explaining that,” Carrie said.

  “We don’t get to see each other very often,” Lindsay added.

  “Ladies, may I refill your cups?” offered Derrick, half standing.

  Mrs. Boynton put her cup deliberately on the coffee table and took up her clipboard, ignoring him. Carrie covered her cup with her hand, smiling her refusal.

  Lindsay said, “I’m not shy, if you’re pouring.”

  Mrs. Boynton sat straight in her chair, shoulders square and not touching the back. Her formal tone and stern expression matched her posture as she announced, “The purpose of this visit is to inspect the premises on which the minor child resides, and to assess his living situation for the purpose of judging its suitability. We will be interviewing all members of the household, as well as the child.” She turned with a militarylike precision to Derrick. “Do you live in the home?”

  Derrick paused in the process of passing Lindsay a cup of coffee. “I live,” he replied distinctly, “in Baltimore.”

  She made a notation on her clipboard.

  Carrie said apologetically, “We really just need to confirm a few things.”

  “Why isn’t the child in school?” Mrs. Boynton wanted to know.

  “He is in school,” Lindsay returned, a trifle indignantly. “Three hours a day, six days a week.”

  Carrie added quickly. “Homeschooling was approved by the department and by the school board, and Lindsay is a certified teacher with twenty years’ classroom experience.”

  The supervisor gave a disapproving “Hmph” and made another notation on her clipboard. She turned a page. “I see here that guardianship is shared by Reverend and Mrs. Stewart Holland. Why doesn’t the child live with them?”

  Lindsay blinked. “Why—because I’m his teacher. It’s more convenient for him to stay here.”

  “Besides,” added Bridget, “we have a bigger house, and the animals, and Noah likes to work outside . . .”

  “And because he prefers to stay here,” Cici said with an air of simple finality.

  For the first time a smile ghosted Mrs. Boynton’s lips. It was not a pretty sight. “One never wants to make the mistake of assuming that what a child prefers is in his best interests, Mrs. . . .” She checked her notes, searching for Cici’s name.

  “Burke,” said Cici coolly. “And it’s Ms.”

  “I wonder,” continued Mrs. Boynton, “whether the good reverend approves of your”—she slanted a glance toward Derrick—“lifestyle.”

  Derrick’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?” Cici asked, as she raised herself to her full height of five foot, eight inches.

  “Noah!” Carrie’s face flooded with relief as she looked over Cici’s shoulder. “Come in and join us, please.”

  Noah stood at the entrance to the living room, his expression thunderous. Lori stood a few inches behind him, and it looked as though she had pushed or dragged him all the way. Even as they watched, Lori gave him a little shove from behind, which he returned with a backward thrust of his elbow that just missed her ribs.

  He was wearing jeans which, though worn and fashionably frayed in some places, were at least clean. The pale pink cashmere sweater he wore, although tucked and pleated to its best fit, clearly was not his, and neither was the Oxford shirt with the maroon stripe and open French cuffs that were stylishly folded up over the sleeves of the sweater. Noah had, apparently, won the battle of the tie. His hair was wet and slicked back with a comb, and on his feet he wore mud- and manure-stained running shoes without laces. No socks.

  Paul appeared behind the two young people with his hands and eyebrows raised in a helpless gesture. Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay smiled at him gratefully.

  “Noah,” Lindsay said steadily, “you look very nice. Come in and sit down. These ladies would like to talk to you.”

  Noah just stood there scowling. “This ain’t my sweater.”

  Carrie said, “We were just talking about your schoolwork, Noah. I understand you’re doing very well.”

  He said, “I ain’t talking to you.”

  Mrs. Boynton said briskly, “Young man, come inside this minute and sit down. We have some questions for you. Ladies . . .” She swept her eyes around until they rested on Derrick. “And gentlemen,” she added precisely, “if you’ll excuse us.”

  Derrick departed with obvious relief; the ladies a bit more reluctantly, each one touching Noah’s arm or straightening his collar or patting his shoulder as they passed by. They all met up in the hall on the way to the kitchen.

  “The old one has lizard eyes,” Lori said with a mock shudder. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for that kid.”

  “She doesn’t have any eyebrows, did you notice?” Derrick whispered.

  “Not to mention a sense of humor,” said Bridget.

  “Tell me about it. I’m the one who had to try to make conversation for half an eternity before you came down. Silas Marner was more fun.”

  “Thanks for getting Noah cleaned up and downstairs, Paul,” Bridget said.

  “I could only do so much with the raw material,” Paul admitted regretfully.

  “I must say,” Derrick commented in his custo
mary dry way, “you girls do lead colorful lives. Do be sure to invite us back real soon.”

  Cici returned a weak smile as she pushed open the door to the kitchen and leaned against it to allow the others to pass. “I think I’m starting to remember why we don’t entertain anymore,” she said.

  Hoping that the aroma of good things baking would have the same effect on cranky social workers that it did on prospective home buyers—which was why Cici had never shown a home without first sprinkling a little vanilla flavoring or cinnamon on a hot burner—Bridget and Ida Mae got busy whipping up a batch of muffins. But before the oven even preheated, Lori—who had volunteered to spy on the proceedings in the living room—came scurrying back to report, “They’re coming! You won’t believe it—he didn’t say a word! They kept asking him questions and he kept not answering until I guess they got tired of wasting their time. I guess he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to talk to them.”

  As one, Cici, Bridget, and Lindsay groaned out loud.

  Cici volunteered to take the social workers on a tour of the house while Noah, jerking Paul’s cashmere sweater over his head, stalked off to his room. Before the tour even made it up the stairs, he was barreling back down again, wearing his own sweatshirt and coat. “Goin’ to the barn,” he muttered as he shoved past, and was out the front door.

  They looked into all the rooms and made notes. They asked about daily schedules and the division of labor. They refused muffins. They talked to Lori, to Ida Mae, and to each of the women separately. Finally Mrs. Boynton said crisply, “I think we have all we need. Ladies, you’ll be hearing from our office.”

  Bridget, Cici, and Lindsay walked them to the door. Carrie lingered as the older woman went to the car. “I am so sorry,” she said, her expression distressed. “But since it was a court case, they had to send a supervisor.”

  Lindsay asked seriously, “Are we in trouble? I mean . . . do you think she’ll try to take Noah away?”

  Carrie hesitated. “I think there may be some concerns,” she admitted. Then she gave them a reassuring smile. “But in the end I’m sure she’ll see this is the best possible situation for Noah at the moment. After all, this is a very small county and, well, there simply aren’t that many foster homes available.” Again a pause before she added, “We might have to rethink the homeschooling, though.”